


To the stars and back again, Alexander

by orphan_account



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Depression, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Suicide, Suicide Notes, The Author Regrets Everything, Writer Magnus Bane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29241930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Some disorganized memories of Alec Lightwood, from the notebook of Magnus Bane
Relationships: Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Simon Lewis/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	To the stars and back again, Alexander

I'm lazily making obscene patterns with my fingers with the water you spilled over my desk, laughing at your profuse apologies for something so trivial, and admiring the faint colour that has climbed up your beautiful face, and we get talking. Talking, talking, talking. Talking about everything, _anything_ , actually. You tell me of that time you were playing hopscotch, and fell face first and lost your front tooth. I tell you about my cat, which gave my ex allergies. You burst out laughing at that.

* * *

Your face is still, white. As white as the thick bandages around your wrists, your skin nearly as translucent as the tube which hooks you to life.

 _Please_ , I beg.

 _Please_.

* * *

"Sweetpea, you've _got_ to help me." I'm utterly terrified of the exam the next day, the exam for which I have no idea what is going to come, and I've done the only thing I can do: run upstairs to your room. " _Sweetpea_?" You raise your eyebrows- _caterpillar_ _eyebrows_ , I call them, and I'm worried for a minute. What if I had misunderstood? You flush and look away, suddenly, but you're not fast enough. I catch the shy look in your eyes, and my chest fills with the brief satisfaction of my victory, when you pronounce with the gravity and finality of a judge condemning a man to the electric chair: "So whatever were you doing during the study holidays? It's your fault you're unprepared." I'm thinking fast, something, something which will help me out, something which can win your favour, and I decide to tell you the truth, what I truly was thinking of all these days, lying on my bed. "I? I was thinking if you'll accept my invitation. For a date. To Taki's. Your cheeks flame brilliantly, and you stammer out, "You want to ask me out on a date?" The expression is so beautiful, so heart-warming, that I don't think twice before pressing my lips to yours. I can hear your gasp, surprised, and then you do something even more surprising. You kiss me back, and I say something which made _me_ blush.

"I love you, Alexander Lightwood. To the stars, and back again."

* * *

The apartment is dark, stuffy and humid. The lights are out, the balcony door is closed completely, and I can't find you. The familiar panic rises in my chest when I can't find you in the living room, or the bathroom. The bedroom door is closed. I can hear the choked sobs leaking from there. I sigh, turn on ESPN as loud as I can, and open a beer can. After an hour, you walk out, staggering like you're drunk, on unsteady legs. I should've asked you what was wrong. I should've asked. I didn't I already knew. You had looked into my desk. You'd found the papers.

* * *

Our date at Taki's is a _disaster_. The food is too spicy, we run into an ex of mine, who pours his drink all over my shirt. You laugh so hard that you're crying, and then you lean over the table and kiss me, to the surprise of old Ricardo. On our way out, I put up my middle finger at Ricardo and drop a huge wink.

* * *

Your mother gives me a distant smile, she's too distracted with your baby brother, and after a couple of years, I realise, she's too distracted with worrying about _you_. She's too worried thinking about when I would leave you, and what she could do to make it better. It's amazing, actually, how far your mother thinks. She knew me even more than I knew myself.

* * *

The doctors shake their heads at me. He isn't responding, they tell me in soft, sad tones. I know what they're thinking. Twenty five years. An entire life ahead of him. A pity, really. I'm howling at them, because it's not possible, this is _you_ , _my_ Alec they're talking about, you're a fighter, you've been fighting since you were a child, _of_ _course_ you'll come back to me. My anger is gone in a minute. I begin to plead, blubbering and begging them to tell me what they said was wrong. I make a fool of myself. I take my pleading inside then.

* * *

We're fighting again, it's about your zoning out, your periods of time when you have no idea what you did. Like yesterday, when you used my father's golf club and broke the plaster. A few more centimetres, and it would've been my head. You're sobbing, crying, telling me that you wouldn't do it again. You beg me not to take you to the specialist.

I'm needlessly cruel when I tell you that if there was any hope of saving our marriage, you'd have to see the specialist. I tell you I'm done with having a mental case in my hands.

That's the exact wording I used.

_Mental case._

* * *

We're young, we're deliriously happy, totally in love with each other when you take me to your family again, and then I make up my mind to do it. I get down on my knee, and with my characteristic flair for dramatics, I propose, to your sister's excited squeals, her husband's light laughter, your brother's secretive smiles, and his wife's kind look.

You accept.

The wedding happens within two weeks.

It's yet another cold, loveless night, a night where you sit dumbly on the sofa and turn away when I reach for you. "Alec," I choke out. "To the stars and-" "Back again, I know, I know. So you say. So _you_ say." You whisper viciously at me, standing up and pushing past me to the bedroom, where you firmly shut the door. It's yet another night for me on the sofa.

Logically, I know it's because you need space. I know that you tend to curl up inside yourself when you're angry, or scared. But the illogical, emotional part of me is roaring, and drowns out the logical part.

My chest tightens, my breath is cut off, and I stand up, go over to the balcony.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I was going to see Ragnor Fell.

I was going to see my lawyer.

See if he could draw up the divorce papers.

_How had things come to this?_

* * *

You're unresponsive, pale and... _cold._ You're cold, as if you're already dead, as if the life has already been drained out. Your sister's eyes are red, swollen, her hair dishevelled from pulling at it. Your mother smiles at me sadly, and that's more than anything. It speaks more volumes than if she had decided to claw at my face, spit on my shoes, kick my stomach.

That smile makes me wish I could do all that to myself.

"This is all my fault." I whisper, slumping down the glass doors, at the foot of your mother's chair.

"All my fault. I drove him to it. I did this. I shouldn't have abandoned him when he needed me-" "Magnus, no. You didn't drive him to anything. It's just... You kept him in one piece all this while. I didn't... frankly? If I'm not speaking as a mother? I dreaded this day from the moment he could speak, Magnus."

But they're false words all the same.

I should've made sure it never happened, the thing Maryse has dreaded all her life.

* * *

You give me that beautiful smile I fell in love with, your lips parting. We're lying on our new bed, which just came yesterday, definitely better than our beds at college too narrow for one person, definitely not for two rather tall individuals. Your knees would dig into mine, your elbows would poke into my ribs, and when you would turn to kiss me, our noses would hit each other.

_Hard._

I'm laughing at our awkwardness as we talk about it, and despite everything, I can't help but feel that that discomfort was a thousand times better than any bed I've shared with anyone else.

The shrill, piercing ring of your phone disturbs us, and I tumble out, reaching for it.

" _Alexander Lightwood?"_

_"Yes, this is him."_

_"I'm calling from the Beth Israel hospital. There's been an accident."_

_"Wh-What?"_

_" Your brother, Jace Lightwood, has had an accident...and I'm very sorry, Mr Lightwood. Things...things don't look very good."_

Even then, I knew. I knew Jace Lightwood was gone.

That was the beginning, the start of your downward spiral.

* * *

Ragnor laces his fingers together, looking at both you and me. He takes in your devastated face, the way my fingers tremble when I'm asked to sign the papers. He tells us to come later that day, in the evening.

I should've noticed it when you drove away, separately. I should've known when you locked yourself inside the bathroom. When I heard the running water, I figured you were taking a shower.

I went out.

When I came back, you were still in.

I got the neighbours to open the door, knock it down, remove the whole thing by its hinges.

The red colour was stark against the white tiles.

I remember clutching at your slack arms so hard my nails cut your skin. I remember whispering our words, again and again.

_To the stars and back again, Alexander._

* * *

I have loved you for a long time, Alexander. I loved you for all these years, and I still loved you when you were buried, on a grey, overcast morning, rain drizzling.

And so, now that everything's clear, I stop writing...

* * *

" _Famous New York based fantasy fiction writer Magnus Bane found dead in his apartment at Brooklyn. Officials say that Mr Bane's untimely demise is due to an overdose of pills, the bottle of which was found at his bedside table. Those close to the popular young adult fiction writer say that he had been disturbed since his husband, Alexander Lightwood's suicide earlier this month. There have also been reports of a notebook, containing disorganized memories of Mr Bane's late husband. Experts say the disjointed quality of the writing may be pointing toward to Mr Bane's mind-set..."_


End file.
